Mirror
by boredsvunut
Summary: Postep for 'Intoxicated.' I know everybody's writing these, but this idea was causing me serious problems, because it wouldn't go away. It wouldn't let me sleep.


(Disclaimer: I do not own Law & Order: Special Victims Unit. It all belongs to Dick Wolf. I'm just borrowing the characters to do something with my useless, boring life.)

I sit here. Alone. Staring at the clock that's on the other side of the room, willing it to move. The faster this night goes by, the better. If I had anything worth drinking in my apartment, I'd get myself a drink. But I usually live on the principle that drinking when you're alone and upset isn't the greatest idea. I keep a beer or two on hand, but nothing stronger than that. And I drank the last beer from my fridge about two hours ago.

This is just great. Why does time have to move so damned slow? When I see the sun come up, maybe I'll be able to pretend everything's all right. Maybe. I stare at the clock, unblinking. The lime green display glows 3:12. It feels like it's been twelve minutes after three for hours.

3:13.

It finally moved. I run my fingers through my hair and rub my eyes. I'm tired, but I can't sleep. My body wants to sleep, but my mind's keeping me up. A strong drink or two would help. But it's past last call in most bars. The only places that are still open are places that I wouldn't set foot in. Damn. This is when I hate myself.

3:14.

If I wasn't so scared of turning into what my mother was, I'd keep a bottle of something stronger hidden here. Something I could drown myself in. But I'm scared of becoming what she was. I'm scared of becoming hooked on the temporary numbness that alcohol can give. The quick dulling of the pain.

But when it fades, I know what happens. I know that you wind up reaching for another. And when that wears off, you're pouring yourself another. And then you're hooked. Trapped in a downward spiral.

A drink would numb the pain, for a short time, but when it wore off, when the buzz faded, I know I'd be more miserable than I am right now. See, Mom? You _did _teach me something.

Carrie's words echo in my head. _"But when she was drunk, she wasn't a mother."_ I can understand that. I can even understand the anger. What drove her into Justin's arms. And what drove her to kill her mother.

3:16.

Hearing her say those words took me back. I realized that when I looked at Carrie Eldridge, I was looking at myself in a way. Desperate to get away from her mother, she ran to someone who could take care of her. Someone that she thought could rescue her. I did the same thing. Hearing her admit to killing her own mother, then break out in sobs - I could understand.

She didn't want to kill her mother. It wasn't premeditated. Carrie hadn't planned that. She'd just finally lost control. She was angry, she was hurt - she lost it. She'd finally had enough. When I was her age, I'd been angry enough to think that I wanted to kill my mother. There was one day, she showed up at my school, drunk and raving. And then everyone knew. My teachers, my few friends and the rest of my school.

That's one thing you never want to happen. You have to deal with it yourself. If you don't talk about it and no one else knows, it's not real. And you never _want _it to be real. You don't want it to be real, because if it's not real, you don't have to admit it to yourself that it's happening. You can pretend everything's just fine.

3:18. This is gonna be a long night.

After my mother's little episode at my school, everyone changed. The kids laughed behind my back. The teachers looked at me with pity in their eyes. My so-called friends disappeared from my life. That was the first time I thought that I wanted to kill her, so she couldn't screw up my life any more than she already had.

When I was sixteen, I was doing homework in the library of the university where my mother taught, when this older guy joined me at the table. He helped me out. He was sweet and good-looking. The man in every teenager's dreams. Dark hair and blue eyes.

But he was also a college senior and one of my mother's students. I really didn't care. I felt safe with him. I felt that he could get me away from her. Take care of me. So I snuck out to see him, whenever I could.

By that time, I'd managed to make a few friends and I convinced them to cover for me. Lie for me. And when he asked me to marry him, I said 'yes', in a heartbeat. He was going to take care of me. Treat me better than my own mother did. I knew he loved me.

I liked being with an older guy. Guys my own age were going crazy with hormones and they thought a first date was an invitation for a make-out in the backseat of Daddy's car. I had one or two push me too far. They didn't seem to understand that when I said 'no', I meant '_no_', not 'maybe'.

But a man who was older, more mature wouldn't push me. We talked, we walked, he taught me how to skate without falling flat on my face. I didn't do anything but kiss him. But somehow, word got back to my mother. She was ready to kick my ass, when I came home. I was so angry, so hurt - I don't even remember half of what I said to her, that day.

It made no sense to me, at the time. She never got involved in my life at any other time. She never gave a damn before. Why did she have to interfere when I was going to be happy? When I had the chance to have what she didn't have? What she'd never have.

It makes sense to me, now, because I'm not a kid anymore. She was just trying to protect me. She knew what would happen to me. She knew the truth that I was too blind and too young to see. She could see that I was too young.

But in my sixteen-year-old head, I felt that she didn't _want _me to be happy. That she didn't want me to have what she would never have. That she was jealous that I'd been able to find someone to love. So I told her that I was going to move out.

When she came at me with the bottle, I panicked. I kicked her. The first time was just to get her away from me. But the second time, I did it purely to cause her pain. To make her feel what I felt.

I know that if I'd stayed in that apartment, I might have done what Carrie did. But instead, I bolted. I ran down five flights of stairs and a whole block, before I stopped at a payphone and called Simone. I'd met her through my then-boyfriend and I knew she'd help me. I knew she'd understand.

The friends I had came from normal families, lived normal lives and had normal, functioning parents. I didn't even know what normal _was_. Any of the kids I knew wouldn't have understood my situation at all. I needed someone older. Someone who could help me and not be confused by what I was saying. So I called a woman I barely knew, looking for help.

I was scared, more than anything. I was terrified. Not of my mother. But of myself. What I'd done.

My mother never remembered the fight we had over that. She never remembered coming at me with the bottle. But I still do. It still scares me. I still find myself wondering what I might have been capable of doing. Especially now. Could I have snapped and beaten my own mother to death, like Carrie?

3:21. Damn it. The time's not moving, at all. I lean back against the couch, one hand over my eyes. I hate these nights. Then I remember. The sleeping pills.

When my schedule's been screwed up or I'm wired from coming off one of the high-profile cases that keep us all on overtime, I take one or two to help me sleep. My doctor approves, of course. I try to avoid taking them, when I can, but tonight, I need them.

I find the bottle in my bedside cabinet and step back to the kitchen for a glass of water. I swallow them and set the glass on the cabinet, crawling into bed. I'll be glad for sleep.

It takes a few minutes for the pills to kick in. I reach over and turn out the light, before I curl up and fall asleep. I don't care when I wake up.


End file.
